Poppy announced their presence at the desk and asked if Mr Farmer and Mr North were there. The concierge checked his key rack and told them Mr North was out but Mr Farmer was in. Would the lady and gentleman like to see him? Poppy said they would and they were directed to the hotel lounge to wait. Ten minutes later, an exhausted-looking Gerald, wearing a crumpled white suit, filled the lounge door with his bulk. Poppy waved to him and smiled. He struggled to summon a smile in return.
Rollo approached him, hand outstretched. “Gerald, old sport, you look like you’ve been run over by a coach and horses. My condolences about Agnes.”
Gerald shook Rollo’s hand. “Good to see you, Rollo. Is Yasmin here too?”
“She is, but she’s already on the job, trying to get Grace out. Got meetings this morning with a local solicitor and the old bill. So Poppy and I thought we’d stop by to see how you were doing. Should we order some tea?”
Gerald nodded his assent then settled into an armchair near the window. His darkly shadowed eyes peered out, scanning the quiet Sunday morning street. Across the road a congregation was worshipping at St Thomas’ church, but beyond that there were only a couple of pedestrians and the occasional motor vehicle to be seen.
“Is Gus not here?” asked Poppy.
Gerald shook his head morosely. “No. We had a row and he’s gone out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Gus seemed very upset when he left Dot’s house on Friday night. Was the argument about that?”
Gerald nodded, setting off his double chins. “He’s very upset about Agnes.”
“We all are,” said Poppy.
Gerald looked at Poppy, his eyes a pool of pain. “Yes, but not like Gus.”
“And why is that?” asked Rollo.
Gerald shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s taken it very, very badly.” He looked around as if checking to see if anyone was listening, then added: “He didn’t come back to the hotel with me on Friday night. When the taxi dropped us off after we’d collected Agnes’ things from your aunt’s house, Poppy, he stalked off on his own. I tried to catch up with him, but,” he gestured to his large frame, “he’s a lot fitter than I am. So I came back. I waited up for him all night. He finally came back around lunchtime yesterday. And –” He bit his lip and shook his head.
“And what?” asked Poppy gently.
“And it looked like he’d been in a fight. He had a black eye and a cut lip. I asked him what had happened, but he refused to talk. He spent the rest of the day in his room. And then went out again last night. He – he – hasn’t been back since.”
“Oh Gerald, I’m so sorry. That must be such a worry for you.”
“It is. I thought about going to the police, but I’m worried that they might think he’s run away because he’s somehow involved in Agnes’ death.”
Poppy nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid you’re right, Gerald. It doesn’t look good that Gus has run off like this. Where do you think he’s gone?”
Gerald looked out the window again. “I don’t know. But I know it’s not because he’s involved in any way. This is just how Gus is. He’s done it before – in London – when he’s upset about something. He takes himself off for a few days. Goes drinking. Fighting sometimes, I think. I don’t know. He never tells me what he’s done when he returns. But he always returns, Poppy, always. And he will again this time. It’s just how he is. But the police won’t understand that, will they? They’ll think it’s because he’s guilty of something.”
“Is he guilty of something?” asked Rollo.
Gerald’s eyes widened with shock. “Good heavens, man! Of course not!” Gerald pressed his hands onto the arms of his chair, as if about to lever himself up.
Poppy jumped in, trying to placate him. “Of course Rollo didn’t mean he killed Agnes. It’s just that we’ve spoken to the stable boy who overheard Gus and Dante Sherman arguing on Thursday afternoon, before the exhibition.”
Gerald’s hands relaxed and he sank back into the chair. “Oh. That.”
The three of them sat back in their armchairs as the waiter arrived and placed a tea tray on the table. Poppy poured for them all. Gerald’s hands were shaking as he took the cup and saucer from her. He put it down with a clatter, spilling tea over his sugar cubes.
“So…” prompted Rollo. “Can you explain to us what the stable boy overheard?”
“I – I – don’t think I should be talking to the press about this.”
Rollo frowned. “It’s too late for that, old sport. The reporter from the local rag is already on it. He was the one who introduced us to the stable boy. But, you know us, and you know that we – and particularly Poppy here – will do more than just write a story. We’ll try to get to the truth. And if what you say is correct – that Gus had nothing to do with it – then we can help clear his name. Just like we’re trying to clear Grace’s. So come on old bean, tell us what you know.”
Gerald had steadied his hand enough to pop the sugar cubes in his tea and stir. Then he looked up first at Rollo, then Poppy.
“I don’t know where to start. It’s just such a horrendous mess.”
Poppy smiled encouragingly. “That’s all right; take your time. Perhaps you can tell us what you remember about the argument with Sherman. What happened when you arrived at the stable door with the paintings?”
“All right,” said Gerald. “That’s a good place to begin. A man was there to meet us – the stable manager, I think. He sent the lad around the front of the gallery to get Sherman. Sherman and an old fellow – I think the caretaker – arrived about five minutes later at the door at the top of the stairs, the one Agnes apparently went out of later. Then they came down the stairs and greeted us.”
“What was his mood like – Sherman’s?” asked Rollo.
Gerald thought about this a moment and said: “Cheerful. Quite cheerful. He seemed pleased to see us. Or at least pleased to see the paintings.”
“Did he look at them?”
“He slit open the brown paper to check that they were the right ones, but he didn’t fully unwrap them, no.”
“What happened then?” asked Poppy.
“He instructed the caretaker to take them inside and hang them in the allocated space in the Robson exhibition. It was then that Gus kicked off.”
“Kicked off? How?” Rollo took a sip of his tea, grimaced, and then added some more milk.
“He said that wasn’t what he and Sherman had agreed. That the paintings weren’t supposed to be hung with the rest of the exhibition. That they were just for Sherman’s personal collection.”
“Personal collection? Do you know what he meant by that?” asked Poppy.
Gerald nodded. “Yes. Sherman had actually bought these two paintings out of his own pocket. The rest of the paintings for the exhibition were either on loan from other galleries – including the Tate – or on loan from Agnes herself. But these two paintings were different.”
“Interesting,” said Poppy. “Were you aware that he had bought them?”
“Yes.”
“And was Agnes?”
“Well, no.”
“And why’s that?”
“Agnes is a prolific artist. She was a prolific artist. She hired me to deal with the business side of things. That includes the sale of paintings. There is a stash of artworks I can draw on to sell whenever I find a buyer. I don’t have to check with her first. But it’s up to Agnes which paintings she puts into the pool and which she withholds. Some paintings she considers more precious than others and she wants to know who is buying them and where they’re going. Others are more run of the mill and she doesn’t really care.”
“And these were of the ‘run of the mill’ variety?” asked Poppy.
“Apparently.”
“Apparently? What do you mean?” asked Rollo.
Gerald flashed a glance out of the window, still hoping to see Gus return. “Apparently, because that’s what Gus told me. Agnes never gave me these paintings. Gus did. He told me a
bout them when we decided to come up for the exhibition. He said Sherman had seen them when he had been down in London a month or so ago. Apparently he’d dropped by to see Agnes. I didn’t know about it. But Gus said Sherman saw these and asked to buy them. Agnes asked Gus to pass them on to me.”
“Did he? As soon as Agnes asked him?” asked Poppy.
Gerald shook his head. “No, he claims to have forgotten. He said he only just remembered the day before we planned to come up.”
“Claims?” asked Rollo. “Sounds like you don’t believe him, old sport.”
Gerald exhaled slowly, his mouth sagging into his fleshy jowls. “I’m afraid I don’t. As Poppy here pointed out the other evening, the paint on one of them was still slightly tacky. It hadn’t been finished that long. Agnes has never passed on a painting for sale that wasn’t even dry yet. But, when I asked Gus about it, he just shrugged and said it had been her decision and that’s that. I was still feeling green about the gills after my tummy trouble so I didn’t argue. We just packed up the paintings and brought them here.”
“And the other one?” asked Poppy. “The one with the mother and child on the railway track?”
“That one is dry.”
“Had you seen it before?”
“No. But that’s not unusual. As I said, Agnes is – was – prolific. I don’t monitor her work that closely. Her studio is piled high with paintings. I only visit occasionally and when I do we usually spend time looking at accounts and contracts, or press releases if I’m wearing my publicist’s hat.”
“Hmmm,” said Poppy, taking a sip of her tea. “The thing is, I’m not an expert on her work – or art in general – but I’ve seen enough of it exhibited to get the impression that that painting is not her usual style. The railway line, yes, I’ve seen that before. And roads. She often has those, but not with people.”
“Oh, there are sometimes people,” observed Gerald.
“Yes, but more in the background, as part of the landscape. Not like that one. In that painting they’re characters. Like the painting’s actually about them and not the landscape. And that, as far as I can tell from what I’ve seen of her other paintings, is unusual. But as I say I’m no expert.”
“Then what are you saying, Poppy?”
Poppy bit her lip. “I don’t know, Gerald. I’m just mulling, that’s all. In these sorts of investigations I’ve learned –” she cast a glance at Rollo and smiled, “– I’ve learned to focus on the unusual. If you pick at the thread it sometimes comes loose. Sometimes it doesn’t. So at the moment I’m still picking.”
Gerald nodded. “All right. I understand. But I honestly can’t tell you any more about the paintings.”
“Actually, I think you can. Bear with me, if you don’t mind. There’s something else that’s been troubling me – another loose thread. You said the other evening in Agnes’ bedroom that Sherman had insisted you bring the paintings up with you. And that it would have been hard to say no to him because he’s a very influential man. But why should it have been a problem to bring them if they were already his property?”
Gerald sighed. “Because, for some reason, Sherman had insisted that the purchase remain secret. I don’t know why. But that’s why when you asked Gus and me about them the other night we didn’t mention that he’d bought them.”
Poppy nodded. “Well, I’m glad you’ve mentioned that, because that was my next question. You gave the impression then that Agnes wouldn’t have wanted them in the exhibition. Why did you do that?”
“Because she didn’t know about the sale. She didn’t mind her least favourite paintings being sold to private collectors, but she wouldn’t want them in an exhibition. She handpicked the paintings for this exhibition. Paintings she was proud of.”
“Yes, that makes sense – that some paintings didn’t matter as much to her and she was happy to put them into the ‘slush pile’ for want of a better phrase. However, wasn’t it too soon to put this painting into that pile? Lilies in a Vase had barely even been finished. It sounds like it was a current piece.”
Gerald shrugged. “Sometimes she knew quite quickly that she didn’t like a piece. Sometimes she even abandoned paintings that weren’t finished. It’s quite common for artists, you know.”
“I suppose it is,” said Poppy. “But what I’m trying to get at is how could Sherman have seen it a month or two ago if the paint is not quite dry? That suggests a fairly recent work. When exactly did Sherman visit the studio?”
Gerald looked puzzled. “I don’t know. Perhaps you could ask Gus when he comes back. As I said, the whole business is a little odd. I shouldn’t have misled you the other night – I’m sorry about that, Poppy – but Gus was quite keen to honour Sherman’s request not to make his purchase public.”
“Why’s that?” asked Poppy.
Gerald spread his hands. “I honestly haven’t a clue. As I said, I was feeling green about the gills, so I didn’t really take much notice. It wasn’t until – well, until what happened to Agnes – that I began to reflect on the whole affair as slightly peculiar.”
Rollo raised his hand, indicating to the waiter that they would like a fresh pot of tea. “Yes, it is a little peculiar,” he chipped in. “And I’m struggling to get my head around it. I’m a little late to the game, old sport, so forgive me if I ask something Poppy has covered with you already before today.”
“No problem. Fire away.”
“All right. Tell me then, if you didn’t know about the sale to Sherman, who would have handled the paperwork. Who, for instance, would have taken payment and where and how would it have been recorded. Because that’s your job, isn’t it Gerald?”
Gerald lowered his gaze. “It is. I normally handle sales.”
“But not this time.”
“No,” said Gerald.
Rollo pressed on. “Did he buy the paintings there and then?”
“No. Gus said he sent him a telegram a few weeks ago and asked him to bring them up.”
Rollo nodded, absorbing the information, then continued. “Well, that is very peculiar, isn’t it?” He looked at Poppy. Poppy nodded, encouraging him to continue. “So why do you think he telegraphed Gus when you handle all the business, Gerald, and while you and he had been working together on the exhibition for months already?”
Gerald’s eyes flicked to the window and then back to Rollo. He looked desperately weary, thought Poppy, in body and in heart.
“I don’t know. Gus said Sherman would pay me when we arrived.”
“And did he?” pressed Poppy.
“He hasn’t yet, no. But I didn’t want to push him, what with everything that’s going on. I’ll sort it all out when everything settles down. Now’s not really the time for business.”
“Business. Yes, that reminds me,” continued Rollo. “When Gus and Sherman were having the row, what do you think Sherman meant when he said, ‘They have to be hung inside; she needs to know I mean business’?”
Gerald looked at Rollo, startled. “I didn’t tell you that.”
“The stable boy did. He said that’s what Sherman said to Gus when Gus said that he hadn’t agreed for them to be exhibited. And I’m still trying to understand why.”
Gerald looked out the window again, pondering. “I don’t know. I found it odd too.”
“Did you ask Gus?”
“I did. There and then with my limited hand signing.”
“And what did he say?”
“It was too fast for me to understand properly, but he said something to the effect that I would have to ask her – Agnes. That there was something going on between Sherman and Agnes and he’d promised not to say anything.”
“Promised Agnes or promised Sherman?” asked Rollo.
Gerald shrugged. “He didn’t say. But I decided I would ask Agnes. I was already a bit puzzled about why the two paintings had come to be there the way they had.”
“And did you ask her?”
Gerald shook his head, sadly. “I didn’t
have a chance before she died.”
The three of them fell into silence as the waiter brought a second pot. After he had left and Rollo poured for them all, Poppy asked: “How long have you known Gus, Gerald?”
“Four, nearly five, years. It was 1919. Agnes had decided that she needed a studio assistant. Gus was without a doubt the best candidate.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, apart from his own artistic talent, and his willingness to learn from a woman – you know that’s quite a rare thing, Poppy – he and Agnes hit it off straight away. They just – I don’t know – connected. In private, anyway. Publicly they didn’t do quite so well. Both of them were too introverted. But beyond that, they had a similar view of the world. An artist’s view. Agnes could be difficult at times, moody, but Gus didn’t let it bother him.”
“Sounds like Gus could be moody too,” observed Rollo.
“Oh, without a doubt! But he is a beautiful soul under it all. We – well – I’m sure it’s no secret – but he and I have become very close too.” Gerald’s eyes misted up.
Poppy nodded sympathetically. “Yes, it’s obvious that you have a lovely friendship. It’s very special. But tell me, Gerald, what do you know about his background? You said you met in 1919. Was he in the war?”
“He was a non-combatant due to his deafness. He worked in an armaments factory, I think, assembling weaponry. He hated it. So when he heard about the job – for an artist’s assistant – he jumped at it. He’d had no formal art training, but he is a very talented amateur artist and wanted to take it further.”
[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco Page 18